


A House Upon Rock

by Florentium



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: F/M, Firenze | Florence, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Open Marriage, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Platonic Life Partners, Platonic Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 16:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8109685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florentium/pseuds/Florentium
Summary: When Maria was a young girl, she had decided that life amounted to far more than who slept next to her in her bed. That's why she chose Giovanni.





	

Maria was not a fool. She’d had Giovanni marked from the moment they first met at one of the Medici’s family's more lavish political banquets, many years ago. It was the way he held himself, the way he spoke with his hands, so expressively, the way his eye would linger a moment too long on the mouth of a beautiful boy.

He hid it well, and most people did not notice. But then, most people were fools.

They had both been young and were both already bored with the lives of Florentine nobility. Only, unlike Maria, Giovanni himself was not a noble, and this had intrigued her. 

Seemingly overnight the young banker’s apprentice from rural Tuscany had won the hearts and favour of the Medici family, and with that, Florence itself. On this particular day he was the personal guest of the patriarch of the Medici household--Cosimo himself--though he was rarely out of arm’s reach of the old man’s grandson, the young Lorenzo, who clung to Giovanni like a shadow. Poor Giovanni had been swarmed with patrons of the court all day, ready and eager to grill the newcomer, to weigh and measure his worth in their world.

With all her carefully learned grace, Maria had slid over to where Giovanni stood surrounded and introduced herself. Sipping at a rich Tuscan Chianti and smiling knowingly, she’d made quick work of all social pretenses between them and soon they spoke as old friends meeting again for the first time in many years. The boy was funny, kind and sweet but not without a sharp and devilish wit. It was infectious, and Maria had found herself charmed by his charisma. Before the end of the night they polished off another jar of Chianti together and by the time Giovanni bid her goodnight at the entrance to her family’s palazzo Maria already had the vague half-formed notion that they would be forever together. 

It had been his smile. It was warm and delicate and melted Maria’s heart. 

For Maria, love had never been a personal priority, nor was it something particularly guaranteed for a woman in her position. The noble’s daughter would not marry for love. She would marry for strategy, for politics. And perhaps, if she was lucky, love would come later. Maria has known this all her life and she neither resented it nor cared. Life, she’d decided long ago, amounted to far more than who slept next to her in her bed.

She pitied men like Giovanni. Even under the comparably liberal influence of the Medici, their ways were still shameful, sinful, and illegal. And now, with the formation of the _Ufficiali di Notte_ a few years ago, they were being savaged in their own city. Those who dared were compelled to maintain extreme privacy and paranoia, going out only a night and sticking to safe haunts. And heaven help those who were caught by the _Ufficiali_. To be arrested was a small trouble when compared to those who found themselves cornered at the end of a dark alley by a dozen of the guard. The things that were done to them, they were unspeakable.

From then on, Maria made a point to attending events hosted by the Medici throughout the city, meeting Giovanni whenever she could. The young man was riding quite and upswing of success. Under the wing of the Medici, his banking business was soaring and clients were seeking him out from far and wide. He rented a small room in the San Marco district but he seemingly ate, breathed and slept at the Palazzo Medici for he was always there, sometimes at absurd hours of the night. Sometimes he was gone and Maria didn't see him for weeks, months. Maria often wondered, cynically, what sort of banker’s work took place only under cover of darkness, but was wise enough to not ask.

When Giovanni was in Florence though, the two of them were near inseparable, much to the horror of her family. She had never met a man quite like Giovanni and it was his peculiarities that drew her to him. It was easy to be with him, without the pretensions or guardedness of court life, without having to say one thing and mean another. There was nothing they would not share with each other. 

It was late in the year when, on shores of the Arno, Maria asked Giovanni to marry her.

“Maria, what would possess you to ask me that?” Giovanni tried to laugh to hide his surprise, but against Maria it was useless.

“You think it not a valid offer?” Maria mocked with a grin. “What, am I unsuitable to be your wife? Would your Medici handlers not approve? My, I can just imagine their horror to learn that you have run off with a good, respectable woman, living a quiet, decent, and otherwise unremarkable life. The scandal--“

Giovanni smiled, and took Maria’s hand in his own, “Maria, you know why I must refuse you. Surely it has not escaped your notice. You are no fool.”

“Hardly, but I am coming to think that you may be, _caro mio_. I am offering you an ideal compromise. You are in need of a wife. I am in need of a husband. We enjoy each other’s company. I cannot think of a more obvious conclusion.”

“There is more to it than that, Maria.”

She groaned, frustrated, “You stubborn man, what more could there be?” 

Giovanni’s ever-present smile faded and he looked away, out over the waters, “I have... secrets, Maria. Dangerous secrets. I would never presume to put you at risk.”

“Do not presume for me, I will do such for myself. You cannot scare me away, Giovanni, no matter how grave these secrets of yours may be. You know I am not some delicate woman of the courts; I have secrets of my own.”

Giovanni sighed, but at last smiled again, “Then, _bella mia_ , I will tell you. I will tell you everything, Maria, and if after you have heard everything you still wish to marry me, then I agree.”

In Giovanni’s small room they talked until dawn. He told her ancient war stories, spoke of conspiracies deeper than the sea, showed her all his scars as proof. At first, Maria was disbelieving, then scared, then resolute in her decision.

The following spring, they were married. Nine months on, Maria had a son, Federico. 

For years, their marriage was peaceful, unremarkable. Between them there was never anything but their shared emotional intimacy, a powerful vulnerability that Maria had never shared with anyone. Physically, neither of them expected anything from the other. Sometimes there was sex, when Giovanni was feeling particularly affectionate. On occasion, he would return home, whether from the bank or from assignment, and kiss her mouth and touch her body and Maria could never have said afterwards that it wasn’t enjoyable at the time. Giovanni was her closest friend, her most trusted confidant. She loved him and he loved her and what was physical between them was fleeting, but precious. 

She had known about the other men. She was no fool, after all. Some nights Giovanni would not come home until well after dark smelling of the river and stale wine. Some nights he would not come home at all. Most of these encounters were passing things, single nights misspent in a rented room with a total stranger. Once in a while, they became something more. During these certain liaisons, Giovanni would flit about the villa like a schoolboy, giggling in delight and in a perpetual good mood. Sometimes Giovanni would even introduce these ones to her, bring them to dinner at the villa. All of them were sweet, bright and beautiful, wonderful guests, but they never lasted. Either they were arrested, vanished, or frightened away by Giovanni’s work with the Medici. Maria hardly expected more of them. Their lives were trying enough as it was.

Lorenzo had been different. The boy had grown into a man of seventeen now and he was every inch the sophisticated calculating diplomat his grandfather had raised him to be. With his father forever in ill health Lorenzo was already practically running the family from his bedside, an appointment that he took to with an easy grace. It wasn’t long before he took the reins of his grandfather’s work with Giovanni and from then on they were hardly ever apart. Giovanni was infatuated. Lorenzo was adventurous. And together they worked as easily as a bird through the air.

Lorenzo had had him marked as well; no fool was he, either.

Some days her husband came home with soft bruises on his neck and a wry smile on his face and would absolutely regale Maria with tales of Lorenzo’s elegance and poise and intelligence and cunning and knowing eyes and wandering hands. Their first time, Giovanni had told her, had been late one night after a successful kill. It had been a simple kiss, chaste and understanding in the candlelit warmth of Lorenzo’s office. In his excitement Giovanni was childlike and Maria found it amusing to no end.

One night several summers later, after Annetta had helped her put the boys to bed, Maria walked in to find Giovanni sitting forlornly at his desk, resting his chin heavily in his hand, a goblet of his favourite Chianti already half empty.

“He’s getting married,” Giovanni slurred. “In June. To a _Roman_.”

It took a moment for her to place the meaning of his words, and she felt a little wave of empathy sweep over her once she did. Maria went and laid a hand gently over his head. “ _Caro mio_ , you had to know this would happen.”

“I did,” he admitted, leaning into his wife’s palm. “Just not this soon. His mother is behind this, I just know it. That horrible woman never leaves him alone.”

“Come now, Giovanni, you know Madonna Lucrezia is nothing of the sort. Besides, it is not such a great tragedy. You were his age when we married,” Maria had meant it to be comforting but Giovanni was unmoved. She carried on. “What will become of your work with him and his family, now?”

“He assures me that it is to remain the same,” Giovanni swirled the wine in his goblet absently. “He says that his bride--one of the Orsini daughters--that she must never know. I will go on working for him. With him.”

Kneeling on the floor before him, Maria tenderly set his glass down and took his hands in her own. “Well then, husband, it seems to me that you fret over nothing. Take it as a sign of good fortune that he would not cast you aside at the earliest convenience. If he means to keep you by his side, for your work and whatever else, then it can only mean he trusts you implicitly. Do not abandon him when he needs you perhaps more than ever.”

Giovanni sat in thoughtful silence for a moment before a warm familiar smile crept across his face, “What would I do without you, _cara mia_?”

“You would be twice as foolhardy are reckless as you are now, no doubt. Perhaps between me and your other wife, we can keep from getting yourself killed before long.”

Maria had met Lorenzo’s wife once, the Easter Feast after they were married, and found her to be exceedingly dull. There had been a horrible awkwardness the first time Lorenzo had introduced her. They received her as pleasantly as they could; Giovanni bowed and kissed the girl’s hand and Maria had smiled and kissed her cheek and wished them a happy marriage. Lorenzo thanked them and the girl, Clarice, smiled sweetly. Maria held Giovanni’s trembling hand by her side throughout it all.

“I can see why His Magnificence might seek out his bedfellows elsewhere,” Maria whispered into Giovanni’s ear once they were alone, “if he must endure such a dim cow as a wife.”

Giovanni sputtered, gaping outright at his wife’s crudeness.

It was comforting to know that after all these years she could still render her husband speechless.

Later that night they made love and Giovanni was rough and impatient, not that Maria minded. She could see the hurt in his face, feel it in his arms, in his kiss. Afterwards, she held him until morning. Early next year she would give birth to their third child, a girl, Claudia.

The next time she saw her husband and Lorenzo together was at the Requiem Mass for Lorenzo’s father. It was winter and the air was ashen and chilly. In the cold marble nave of _Basilica di San Lorenzo_ priests robed in black read from the Gospel in voices low and solemn. Maria sat in the pews, alone among strangers. Giovanni sat near the altar with the Medici guard, just behind Lorenzo and his brother. She honestly hadn’t expected that. Lorenzo must have thrown a fit to get him seated there, and Giovanni was somewhat conspicuous among the familiar and absolutely regal family. 

Distantly, Maria wondered at what sort of gossip would come of that, but she was far too intrigued at the silent dynamic between Lorenzo and her husband. There seemed to be a whole conversation passing between them in silence while the Mass carried on. As the choir droned out _Dies Irae_ , Lorenzo lowered his proud head by a fraction and glanced over his shoulder at Giovanni, who in turn smiled sadly and pressed his hands together, prayer-like.

To the noble strangers seated in the pews next to her it would have been an imperceptible exchange. To Maria, Lorenzo might as well have been weeping in her husband’s arms.

She saw them kiss only once. It had been that same winter, Lorenzo had come to their home under the pretense of business but had ended up spending most of the evening with them. Young Ezio and Claudia had greeted him by happily seizing the hems of his blue silk mantle, crying out, “ _Zio_ Lorenzo,” much to Giovanni’s horror and Maria’s amusement. Lorenzo had done his best to be appreciative of the children but couldn’t hide his grimace as he gingerly extricated himself from their grips, peeling off their iron-vice fingers from around the fine mink of his garment.

Maria herded the children into their rooms with the help of Annetta as the two men retreated into Giovanni’s office. She busied herself with preparing tea for their guest and listened absently to playful footfalls of her children above her head. She placed steaming china cups on a tray, adding a liberal amount of honey to Giovanni’s before carrying them off to the study at the end of the wide corridor. The door to the office was slightly ajar, orange firelight spilling out over the marble floor. Quietly, as not to disturb their work, Maria halted just outside the door, peering inwards. 

They sat together on the near side of Giovanni’s desk, both with their backs to her. On the far wall the hearth was roaring, throwing a warm gold glow over the wood paneled room. The air was thick with the smell of ink and Lorenzo’s particular rose oil scent. They sat too close, shoulders touching and hands overlapping as they pored over the documents between them. Lorenzo trailed a hand absently over Giovanni’s knee as he held a stick of sealing wax over a candle flame. Giovanni lent forward and whispered something into Lorenzo’s ear and Lorenzo actually laughed, a small discreet sound which he somehow managed to keep dignified. Pressing a bronze seal over the vermillion wax, Giovanni leaned forward and kissed him.

As she lingered in the doorway, Maria was struck with the vague notion that she should feel embarrassed or ashamed at her voyeurism but she couldn’t muster the will to mind. 

Gently, she rapped on the door and the two men broke apart instantly. Giovanni smiled at her knowingly as she offered them tea. 

“I trust you two aren’t working yourselves to death down here,” she asked politely as she laid the tray down on the desk, handing her husband a cup.

“Hardly, dear. Simply business as usual. We’re currently orchestrating the hostile takeover of the Tuscan banker’s guild.”

Lorenzo huffed and accepted a cup from Maria, not meeting her eyes, “You should not so openly mock the gravity of our work, Giovanni.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, _Altezza_ ,” he sipped his tea with an impish grin, impossibly casual in Lorenzo’s presence.

Over her steaming tea, Maria studied the man who had so enchanted her husband. Lorenzo de’Medici was a subtle man, a restrained man. He possessed a curious manner of being both unassuming and commanding at once. He moved with a straight-backed elegance that he could have only been born with, shoulders square, hands clasped firmly under his mink mantle. His iron-coloured eyes were at once fierce and composed, scrutinizing and meticulous. As he moved to raise his cup Maria noticed two small bruises on his neck, just hidden by the lace of his high collar. She imagined the sounds Lorenzo might make under her husband’s experienced hands and smiled.

Together the three of them managed to talk well into the night. The men’s banking work lay forgotten on the desk as Giovanni launched into a story about his latest mission down in Napoli. He’d always been a phenomenal storyteller, and Maria caught Lorenzo smiling as her husband went on in his animated way.

Close to midnight, Lorenzo drained the last of his tea and insisted that he must return home. They walked him down to the street and Giovanni noted with a slightly irritated tone that Lorenzo had come with no guard. Lorenzo waved off the concern.

“I’ll see you in the morning then, _Altezza_ ,” Giovanni remarked, touching Lorenzo lightly on the arm, a purely platonic gesture.

“Um, yes. We have annual ledgers arriving from the Bruges and London branches tomorrow. I will need your accountants to help sort them--” Lorenzo seemed to notice he was rambling and he glanced at Maria, as if unsure how to properly bid them goodbye in her presence.

Taking pity on him, Maria leaned forward boldly and kissed Lorenzo’s cheek. It was hard to contain her laughter when she pulled back and found both men outright gawking at her like a pair of scandalized brides.

Lightly, she smacked her husband on the arm. “Oh, kiss the man goodnight, Giovanni, before the poor thing has a heart attack.”

Lorenzo was about to protest when Giovanni took him by the hand, kissing his cheek and then his mouth, quickly and chastely, suppressing a laugh. 

“Goodnight, _Altezza_.”

“Erm, _sì_ , _sì_ , goodnight, Giovanni. Madonna.”

“Goodnight, Lorenzo.”

Without more, Lorenzo turned and left, quickly fading into the inky night outside the lit palazzo. Giovanni leaned in the archway of the courtyard, apparently contemplating the darkness. Behind him, Maria pressed a small kiss to his ear, wrapped her arms around his waist.

Humming happily, Giovanni griped his wife hands, melting into her hold. “What did ever I do to deserve you?”

“Perhaps you were a saint in a past life.”

“Martyrdom? How romantic.”

Maria hummed thoughtfully but said nothing. Instead she sighed and held Giovanni close in the yellow lamplight, hearing the distant night-noise of the city, thinking of her children peacefully asleep upstairs. What would that young girl from so long ago have thought, if she could’ve seen what would become of her life? Would she regret it? Would life seem a little harder, knowing the things she did? 

Closing her eyes, Maria pressed her lips to Giovanni’s neck. 

“It is a good life we lead, husband.”

He smiled in agreement, “Indeed it is, my wife."

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this many years ago as a response on an old LJ kinkmeme.


End file.
